Red (17 page)

It takes a red-headed woman to get a dirty job done.

—Bruce Springsteen, “Red-Headed Woman”

T
he first Miss Scarlet rehearsal was scheduled for Monday afternoon, and Felicity drove to school that morning in a car full of garment bags. All her outfits needed to be approved by the pageant committee before she wore them onstage on Saturday. Her shoes, her accessories, and a CD of “Red Is the Color of My Heart” were neatly packed in her duffel bag, which sat in the trunk next to Jonathan’s tux jacket. Lugging all her pageant gear around made the competition seem real, and it also awakened Felicity’s anxiety. For the first time, the daunting task before her seemed frightening rather than just distasteful. All her mom’s hopes and dreams were riding on her success, and for a completely different reason, so were hers.

Jonathan was waiting by her locker when she arrived at Scarletville High, wearing his school uniform of dorky glasses and a paint-spattered T-shirt and holding a CD in a plastic sleeve. “Is that for me?” Felicity called brightly.

He looked up and gave her a bashful smile. “Hey. Yeah. Here you go.” There was a piece of notebook paper sticking out of the top, but when Felicity tried to pull it out, Jonathan stopped her. “Um, that’s just the track list. Let me know what you think of the rest of the album?”

“Of course. Thanks so much. Oh, hey, I just remembered.” She lowered her voice and glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. “I still have your tux jacket in my car. Sorry I forgot to give it back to you after … the other day.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. But I have to return it, so if you could leave it for me in the art room or something, that would be awesome.” Jonathan’s eyes darted around, as if he were casing the joint for a robbery. He seemed even more jittery than usual today. “I’ve gotta go, okay?”

“Sure.” Felicity wanted to say all kinds of things about how much fun she’d had on Saturday night, but she just held up the CD and said, “I can’t wait to listen to this.”

As soon as Jonathan was gone, she pulled the notebook paper out of the plastic sleeve and unfolded it, eager to see the song titles. But it wasn’t a track list at all. Written in Jonathan’s neat, blocky print, the paper said:

Felicity,

Here’s the Sharks in Heaven album I promised. Hope you like it.

Thanks for making my prom night into something I actually want to remember.

You are definitely not a cookie-cutter girl.

—Jonathan

Felicity’s whole body felt warm as she folded the note into a tight square and tucked it into the front pocket of her jeans. All through the school day and the interminable pageant rehearsal, she was conscious of it nestled close to her hip. Just knowing it was there as she paraded around the stage in endless loops, practicing her pivot turns, poses, and walks, made her feel stronger and calmer. Over and over, her mom shouted, “Chins up! Shoulders back! Tummies tucked! Backs straight!” in an attempt to make her twelve pageant girls look uniform. It helped to know that someone out there appreciated her for being unique.

By the time Ginger reminded the girls to sign up for their sound check slots on Thursday and released them for the evening, Felicity’s face hurt from smiling and her feet ached from her stiff new heels. She clutched Jonathan’s note like a talisman as she hobbled backstage to collect her things from the dressing room. Ivy collapsed into a chair and winced as she peeled off a silver shoe and exposed several angry red blisters. “
Ow
. Haylie, you
seriously
owe me for this.”

Haylie gave her a starry-eyed smile. “You’ll be so glad you did it, Ives. I promise. The pageant’s such a great experience.”

Ivy waved her blistered foot in her friend’s face. “See this? This is not a great experience. I never agreed to
bleed
for this stupid competition. I’m wearing flats from now on.”

“You can’t wear flats in a pageant! That’s just … not how it works!”

“Haylie, I will go through with this ridiculous charade for you, but I will not suffer any more physical pain for it. You managed to trick me into this, but if you want me to stay in, you have to let me do it my way.” Ivy dropped the silver heels into her backpack. “These are going back to the store tomorrow.”

Haylie yanked off her own shoes. “Felicity, tell her she has to play by the same rules as the rest of us.”

Felicity watched a fierce and determined Ivy lace up her green Converse sneakers, and she knew Haylie would never win this fight. Ivy never let anyone manipulate her or tell her what to do, and she never tried to hide who she was. Felicity admired and envied those qualities, especially because she knew she’d never have that kind of freedom. “Let her do what she wants, Hays,” she said. “She’s making a sacrifice just by being here.”

“
Thank you,
Felicity.” Ivy stood up and grabbed her bag. “You guys ready to go?”

“You can go ahead,” Felicity said. “I need to ask my mom if she wants me to pick up the twins. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Haylie shot her a glare and headed toward the parking lot, Ivy close behind her. Felicity hoped they’d make it to their cars without throwing any punches.

She made her way back to the stage, where she expected to find her mom giving instructions to the pageant volunteers. But instead she found her chatting with Gabby, who was inspecting a box of metallic gold envelopes. It was the first time Felicity had seen Gabby since she’d learned about the exposé, and a pulse of fury ran through her.
It’ll all be over in less than a week,
she reminded herself.
Once you expose the salon to the mayor, she won’t be able to touch you.

“See, the judges have already written the girls’ interview questions, and they’ve numbered them one through twelve,” Ginger was explaining. “The girls drew numbers tonight to determine their order, so that ensures that the questions are assigned randomly.” She looked up and noticed Felicity. “Oh, hi, baby. I was wondering if you were still here. Gabby’s interviewing me for the
Crimson Courier
.”

Felicity was certain Gabby had more sinister motives for lurking around the pageant rehearsal, but she just swallowed hard and said, “I see that.”

“These envelopes are so great,” Gabby said. “Where did you get them? I need some just like this for a project we’re doing for the newspaper.”

“Crafty Cathy’s, right by the post office.”

Gabby riffled through the envelopes. “What number are you, Felicity?”

Providing Gabby with personal information seemed like a terrible idea—the pageant was still five days away, and until then Felicity knew she wasn’t safe. But her mom was giving her a look that begged her not to antagonize Gabby. “I’m number four,” she said.

Gabby flipped the page of her notebook and made one final note before giving Ginger a big smile. “I think we’re done here, Mrs. St. John. Thanks so much for talking to me. I’ll be back to cover the pageant on Saturday.”

“Perfect,” Ginger said. “Baby, I’m going to pick up the twins, and then I think we need to work on your pivot turns. They weren’t quite as sharp as I’d like them to be.”

But Felicity wasn’t listening to her mother. Scrawled across the page of Gabby’s notebook, which was now casually angled in her direction, were the words

I have another job for you. Get ready.

Now that Felicity had ammunition, she knew she could hold her own in a fight against Gabby. If necessary, she could probably even find a way to expose the salon to the mayor before the pageant. Every time she walked into school, she steeled herself as if she were walking into the trenches, her nerves strung taut as a tightrope.

But for three days, nothing happened.

Gabby clearly knew that Felicity feared uncertainty, and she used that to her advantage. As she waited for her enemy’s summons, Felicity existed in a constant state of fight-or-flight. Everything sent her into a startled panic: her brother knocking over his milk at dinner, a classmate using a staple gun in the art studio, excited cheerleaders shrieking in the hall. Every day, she lived for the moment when she could get into bed with her iPod, let her guard down for a few hours, and let Sharks in Heaven sing her to sleep.

Felicity still hadn’t heard from Gabby by the time she visited Rouge-o-Rama on Thursday. To Rose, this appointment was the same as any other, and she chattered away about how excited she was about the pageant. But Felicity knew this might be her last time at the salon, and a deep sense of nostalgia and sadness began to eat away at her steely resolve. For her whole life, this room had been her sanctuary, the one place where she didn’t have to pretend to be something she wasn’t. Rose’s flawless work had secured her popularity and kept her from being ridiculed at school. It had ensured that she wasn’t a disappointment to her mother. In a way, Felicity had Rose to thank for everything she’d become. Could she really repay her stylist by betraying her and bringing her whole world crashing down?

But Rose would be fine. She was an intelligent, capable adult who could easily start over somewhere else. People moved all the time. Everyone needed stylists, and outside of Scarletville, Rose wouldn’t have to keep her skills with dye a secret. Felicity told herself that by keeping herself safe, she might actually be doing the Vaughns a favor.

Her appointment sped by in a haze of distraction, and before Felicity knew it, her hair was dry and perfumed. Rose walked her to the door and gave her a big hug and a kiss on each cheek. “I’d say good luck, but I know you don’t need it,” she said. “You’ll be just beautiful up there. I’m so proud of you.”

The warmth in Rose’s eyes ignited Felicity’s guilt, and she suddenly felt as if a small animal were trying to chew its way out of her gut. “Thanks,” she choked. “And thanks for … you know, everything.” She held up a lock of coppery hair.

“Of course,” Rose said. “But there’s so much more to you than that.”

She ushered Felicity into the down elevator with a smile and closed the salon door. Despite Felicity’s best efforts, a few renegade tears slipped down her cheeks as she rode the juddering elevator to the second floor.

She arrived at City Hall half an hour before her sound check slot, so she headed for one of the stone benches that flanked the front door. She cued up “Cookie-Cutter Girl” on her iPod as she walked, eager to feel those strong opening chords crash through her body and chase away some of her guilt and sadness. And that was why it took her a minute to notice Gabby, who was basking in the sun on the next bench over.

Felicity cursed under her breath. For a minute, it seemed like Gabby might be asleep, and she wondered if she could sneak away unnoticed. But then her enemy sat up, stretched like a cat, and smiled. “Felicity,” she said lazily. “What a nice surprise. Come on, let’s go inside and have a little chat.”

As she followed Gabby into City Hall, Felicity reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around Jonathan’s note for comfort—she’d been carrying it with her as a lucky charm since Monday.
You can do this,
she told herself.
You have just as much power as Gabby does
. But her heart obviously didn’t get the message, because it refused to slow down.

Gabby led her up a flight of stairs and down a long, echoing hallway, then ushered her into a room near the end. When she turned on the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, Felicity saw that they were in the Scarletville Community Players’ props closet. The shelves were piled high with random items that appeared to be completely unsorted: a stack of shields, a lace parasol, a basket full of Mardi Gras beads, a plastic ham. Three taxidermy deer heads gazed down at her from a high shelf with their creepy glass eyes. The closet was tiny, forcing Felicity and Gabby to stand uncomfortably close together, and the overly warm air was filled with dust. Felicity sneezed several times in rapid succession.

Gabby dug through her bag, then presented Felicity with a gold envelope marked with the number four and a folded sheet of white paper. “This is your new interview question for the pageant, and this is the answer you’re going to give,” Gabby said. “Make sure you memorize it by Saturday.”

Felicity stared at the envelope. “My … what? But … my mom already has the questions. What am I supposed to do with this?”

Gabby rolled her eyes. “Seriously, it’s like I have to spell everything out for you. You’re going to go into your mom’s office and swap them, genius.”

“You want me to tamper with pageant materials? I could get disqualified!”

“Only if you get caught. And you won’t get caught, will you?”

Felicity unfolded the white paper. It read:

As a redhead, I certainly understand the founder of Scarletville’s original mission. That being said, I think it’s incredibly important to have people with other hair colors in Scarletville. It’s small-minded and irresponsible to have a community that’s entirely made up of one sort of person. That kind of environment fosters intolerance and stereotyping. And there’s actually still a lot of that here in Scarletville, even though we’re not all the same. The way redheads are automatically placed at the top of the social hierarchy whether or not they deserve it is incredibly unfair. Many blondes and brunettes would probably excel in leadership roles in our community, but people just assume they’re not worthy and don’t even give them a chance. I mean, look at the girls in the pageant this year. There are at least twenty blondes and brunettes in our class, but none of them are up here today. The pageant committee is clearly biased toward redheads, and that’s just one example of the prejudiced behavior of our community’s leaders. It’s not right or fair. I think we all need to examine the way we treat people with other hair colors and make an effort to change.

Felicity gave Gabby an incredulous look. “You seriously think I’m going to stand up in front of the entire town and accuse my own mom
and my mom’s boss
of being prejudiced?”

Gabby shrugged. “Well, that’s your call. But you know what the alternative is.”

The wave of fury that crashed through Felicity was so strong it nearly knocked her over, and words burst from her mouth before she could control herself. “What is
wrong
with you? Do you seriously not see what you’re doing to me? This is not some fun little case study, Gabby—this is my
life
. This is my
family
. I am not your freaking experiment!”